Cupcakes, Diaries, and Rotten Inquiries: A Romantic, Comedic Annie Graceland Mystery, #6

by Pamela DuMond

  “Where’s your cat carrier?” Raphael asked, his eyes sweeping my tiny apartment.

  “In the hall closet, on the floor, on the right hand side.”

  Rafe strode out of the living room and was back within a few seconds, holding the cat carrier. “Put him inside.”

  I attempted to shove Theodore head first into the carrier, but he planted his two front paws firmly on either side of the opening and squirmed. “He drives me crazy!”

  “Switch off,” Raphael said. “You hold the carrier and I’ll wrangle the cat.” So we did. He scuffed the nape of Theodore’s neck that made him go limp for just enough time to propel his twenty-pound hairy behind into the carrier, and I latched the gate. He held the cage as we raced out of my apartment.

  “I’ll kill myself if he doesn’t make it,” I said as we raced toward the curb. “I’ll drive.”

  “Hell, no. Your car’s been breaking down all over the place. You caught your cat in the act. We’re taking him to the emergency vet and we’ll get there in record time if I drive. I’m sure he’ll be just fine,” Rafe said. “By the way—who sent you flowers?”

  Pray for us, Diary.

  Thank you,

  Annie

  ASPCA List of Poisonous Plants for Animals

  Chapter 8

  Ordering for One

  Grady

  Dear Finley,

  So far, National Novel Writing Month has been not only productive, but a blast! I’ve met some nice new friends online by using the hashtag #NaNoWriMo. I’m comparing notes with writers from diverse backgrounds, ages, countries of origin, and writing genres.

  Yessenia from Romania is writing a dystopian zombie romance set at sea—kind of like Titanic the movie, but without a ship. Raul from Brazil is writing a thriller about Neo-Nazis posing as an inspirational religious organization. Edna from Missouri pens Forty Shades of White Hair—a slap and tickle romance for seniors. The NaNoWriMo camaraderie is phenomenal and so inspiring!

  Both Annie and Julia assured me they are journaling to support my effort. I believe Annie. I’m not so sure about Julia, but for now, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt.

  I sensed a bit of frostiness between the two of them recently, and while neither of them has approached me to intervene, I think they had some kind of girl fight. The last time we hit In & Out Burger in the Marina, I heard a few ‘unpleasant’ comments as we placed our orders at the counter.

  “I’d like a Double Double with the special sauce on the side and a small order of fries, please,” Annie said.

  “Will that be all, Miss?” The counter boy asked.

  “No,” Julia said. “I’d like two Double Doubles with the special sauce—”

  “Yes, that’s all. That’s my order. I’m ordering for one, thank you very much.” Annie handed the clerk a five-dollar bill.

  “Since when do we order separately?” Julia asked.

  “Since you were instrumental in almost killing my cat,” Annie said.

  “Grady, you know what I always get. Order for me, se il vous plaît,” Julia instructed. “Your cat—Fat-adore von Fatter-nickel’s fine.”

  “I’d like three Double Doubles, three orders of fries, and two milkshakes: one vanilla and one chocolate.” My manly, but manicured hands trembled ever so slightly as I handed the counter boy my debit card. “Yes sir, that order will be on one tab.”

  “Perhaps, Annie,” Julia said, “you should thank me for the fact that Mack sent you flowers, which got your boyfriend a little jealous, and prompted him to up his game.”

  “Do not call my cat, Fat-adore. And FYI, I’m busy this upcoming Sunday, and can’t be your designated driver at the Martinis and G-strings trunk show at the new Slutty Undies Boutique.”

  “Ooh. Too busy chatting with you former flame, Mack, on Facebook? He likes all of your posts—except for the ones about Raphael.”

  “Cyber stalking me much?” Annie asked. “I’m busy with—well—very important, last minute, baking business.”

  “It’s so ‘last minute’ that you’ve planned it three days in advance,” Julia said.

  “I meant—urgent,” Annie hissed.

  “Hey,” I said. “How’s the diary writing coming along?”

  “Great!” Annie said.

  “Peachy!” Julia huffed.

  Oh, Finley. Sometimes I wonder why am I friends with these girls? Yes, I’ve known them for years—but really—what do we have in common?

  But then I remembered when my first script semi-finaled in a small screenwriting contest. Annie sat on the phone with me every night, until the list of the writers that made the finals was released—and I wasn’t on it. I bit my lip and tried to hold back the waves of sadness. I felt so incredibly defeated.

  Annie burst out crying and then railed at the judges’ overwhelming stupidity and lack of vision. Three days later—she and Julia held a surprise Margaritas and Cupcakes party for me and secretively invited all my friends to cheer me on for my accomplishments.

  We are friends and we have history, Finley. We might not be on the same path, but I think our hearts will always be aligned. And that’s a good thing. Because good friends who love you, no matter what, no matter when, and in spite of whatever your recent screw-up is—well, Finley, those friends are hard to find. They are keepers.

  Did I tell you about my new novel that I’m working on for NaNoWriMo?

  It’s a murder mystery. I think it’s good. I’ll save that for our next conversation.

  Yours truly,

  Grady Swenson

  Chapter 9

  Mishigas

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  He’s freaking killing me. Mack likes every single one of my posts. He sends me private messages and emojis constantly. I’m tempted to frown, point my index finger at my head like a gun, take a selfie, and post that as my profile picture.

  But Mack would probably ‘like’ that and send me stickers. Then I’d be tempted to stop my misery, buy a real gun, and shoot myself, even though I’ve never owned a gun, I’m totally for gun control, and I believe in peaceful solutions over violence every day.

  And the photos—can we talk about the hundreds of pictures he’s sent me in less than a week since he friended me? There are Instagrams of cute cats, photos of him and me as a couple when we were in college, one of him tickling me—I hated when he tickled me—as well as dozens of snapshots of him posed next to every Cadillac known to mankind as well as hundreds of used cars.

  He’s driving me insane!

  I told Rafe about it. He told me to unfriend Mack and block him on Facebook.

  But that felt a little harsh. “Why?” I asked. “He hasn’t threatened to hurt me or violate me. He’s just this old, lonely, boyfriend from so many years ago, who I have zero interest in dating. There’s no point.”

  “What about your sanity? That’s a valid point,” he said after I pitched a perfectly good cupcake across the room where it splattered on the wall, slid down to the floor, and collapsed in a broken heap. Strangely enough, on our next date, Rafe showed up with a bouquet of a dozen red roses. (Score!)

  I broke down and told Mack that the flowers he sent poisoned Theodore. He felt awful, went on a bit of a rant about the poaching of wild animals in Africa, that it was wrong, and that we must save the animals. I have no idea how these two subjects came together in his brain. He offered to send me some money through Paypal to cover the vet bill—which ran around five hundred dollars. I wasn’t sure whether to deposit it, but I was late on my phone bill, gas bill, and my credit card was maxed out. I reluctantly accepted the money and thanked him profusely.

  He messaged me, said “Mack was happy to help,” and asked for a photo of Theodore; so he could see the cat he inadvertently poisoned, and then helped save.

  Well, Diary, despite the fact that he was referring to himself in the third person, he was being so sweet and I couldn’t say no. What was the harm in sending him a picture of Teddy? I privately forwarded him a few
of my favorite shots of Theodore (I was NOT in any of those photos.)

  When I checked Facebook the next morning, Mack had uploaded them to his regular page, his business page, and tagged me on both. And he’d titled his post: “Mack ‘The Man’ McManus Saves the Animals!”

  A creepy-crawly sensation made its way up my spine and poked its tentacles into my brain. Frankly, this felt a little weird; like boundaries were crossed, like I’d been violated in some kind of way. I gave my head a shake, and reminded myself that Mack was probably just lonely, and liked to perform good deeds to make himself feel better about life. I mean—we all do that, right?

  After a few days passed, I relented on Julia, and forgave her for the cat-poisoning debacle, that technically wasn’t her fault.

  And life went on.

  Grady was being secretive about the novel he was writing. Said it was a murder mystery. (Shocker.)

  In a strange twist of events, my boss, Mort Feinberg, gave me a tiny raise and promoted me to the front kitchen of his deli. Even though Mr. Feinberg had been around forever, and fed every celebrity known to mankind, he still treated everyone that worked for him like a human being—not simply slave labor.

  Eighty-five-year-old Mort Feinberg toddled into the back back kitchen last Thursday afternoon just like he was seventy-five, and watched as I punched out a thousand cookies with a cutter shaped like a fat Thanksgiving turkey. “You’re a good kid, Annie Graceland. Not a day goes by that I regret hiring you.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Feinberg. You are a gentleman and quite the munch.”

  “You mean, mensch, or my wife will have my head,” he said.

  “Right,” I said. “I’m still learning Yiddish. Sorry, sir.”

  He waved one hand at me. “Don’t worry about it. We’re square. I realize you want your own bakery business again, someday. In the meantime, you need to build some good will with the public. Let this whole mishigas with the dead self-help author pass, like bad wind after a meal prepared with too much corn syrup.”

  “You’re right,” I said. “But I still like working for you.”

  “I’m promoting you from the back back kitchen to the front kitchen. The one the customers view when they walk to the rear of the restaurant,” Mort said.

  My hand flew to my chest. “The front kitchen? You mean the one that everyone sees on their way to the bathrooms?”

  “The very same, kid. Can you handle the pressure? You up for the promotion?”

  “Oh my God!” I said. “Yes, yes. But—look at me?” I wore white from head to toe, my hair was covered in a net, and a surgical-style mask was pushed down from my mouth onto my neck. “I look like a beekeeper. I have nothing to wear!”

  “Ahem!” Mort coughed and pulled a package from behind his back and held it out in front of him. “This is for those folks who work in the front kitchen. Your promotion includes an hourly pay increase as well as some health benefits. I hope they all fit perfectly.”

  I wiped a tear away from one eye, took the package from him, and unwrapped my new outfit. “Thank you, Mr. Feinberg. Thank you so very much!”

  *****

  The very next day at work I wore my fancier uniform. The chef’s outfit was made of cotton that sported a higher thread count. My hair was still tied in a net behind my head, but I no longer had to wear a mask. The shoes were Crocs—not all that girly, but very tasteful and functional.

  It took a little getting used to being in front of the public eye, but Mort was right: this was a great step to getting my moxie back. I was tasked with organizing To-Go and delivery orders, and there were a lot of those. On occasion I’d be called into the back back kitchen to supervise bakery goods.

  I worked just as hard as I had in the back back kitchen—simply in a different capacity. I spotted a few familiar faces as they made their way to the restrooms; that actress who was known for being high maintenance, throwing temper tantrums, and making show runners throw their hands up in the air and quit a TV show; the conservative male talk-show host who famously yelled at his guests when they disagreed with him, and that super cool and really cute comedian frequently featured on Comedy Central. I’d glance at them, and then look away, hoping against hope that no one would recognize, or address me as “The Cupcake Killer.”

  When suddenly an odor wafted through the air that didn’t normally exist at Mort’s. It smelled like something fresh, new, and kind of leathery. But for the life of me, I couldn’t pinpoint what it was.

  When I heard a familiar voice that sent tingles (not the good kind) up and down my spine and I cringed.

  “Bless my sorry eyes, but if it isn’t Annie Rose Graceland in the flesh. Rrrr! Mack ‘The Man’ McManus is in your town!”

  Aw, crap!

  SOS, Diary. SOS!

  Annie

  Chapter 10

  Mothers and Daughters

  Nancy

  Dear Diary,

  When my only daughter, Annie, finally returned my voicemail—the previous two went unanswered—we chatted for too short a time because she is very “busy” with her exciting life in Lost Angeles. (No—that’s not a typo…)

  I reiterated to Annie that my friends’ children live simply miles away from them. Mrs. McGillicuddy spends every Sunday with her twin daughters, Bertie and Adelaide, in our hometown of Oconomowoc, Wisconsin. Gloria spends holidays with her son, Miller, and her two precious grandchildren. Dot Fettleman even traveled with her youngest daughter for an overnight getaway and relaxing spa retreat to Potawomie Resort and Casino in Milwaukee.

  Did I mention I do not have grandchildren? My son, Carson, is obsessed with hunting and doesn’t seem all that interested in dating. Annie’s busy divorcing Satan.

  I’m the only member of my Wild Women’s Group whose child lives over one hundred miles away, and yes, that disturbs me.

  After Annie promised to come home soon for a visit, she burbled on about her boss giving her a meager promotion that boosted her from slave status to poverty-stricken. It’s heartwarming to know that the pricey college education I paid for with a second mortgage on my house has gone to such good use!

  She also told me about NaNoWriMo—the novel writing event that occurs every November. I mentioned it to Gloria, the fearless leader of my Wild Women’s group, and she was already on it. She’d spent some of our dues and purchased cute, but inexpensive diaries from Wal-Mart, so we might attempt penning a novel, a poem, a short story, or simply journal.

  Which is why, Dear Diary, I am writing to you, as well as on your pretty pages today.

  You know, before Annie got the baking bug, she used to love to write. Maybe NaNoWriMo could inspire her to try that again some day. A mother can only hope.

  Do you have a mother, Dear Diary? Do you write to her on a regular basis? I bet you do. I hope you remember that even though mothers and daughters have their differences—underlying those arguments, disagreements, and miles—is love.

  And as all of us who reach a certain age know, real love is not perfect. Real love has wrinkles, and warts, and more drama than a teenager’s first week at high school. But real love endures.

  That’s why I cashed in some frequent flyer mileage and will be travelling to L.A. to spend Thanksgiving with my only daughter. I’ll tell her the next time we talk. Maybe we can go to Disneyland. It will be so much fun.

  God bless, Diary.

  Sincerely,

  Nancy Jean Graceland

  Strawberry Tiramisu by Joan Olive Yallop (Cheryl Moore’s mama)

  Ingredients and Directions:

  Blend 2 pints of sliced strawberries, 3/4 cup sugar and 3 tablespoons cream de cacao. Reserve 3/4 cup.

  Pour remainder into pie plate.

  In medium bowl mix 1/2 cup mascarpone cheese (room temperature) and 1/4 cup powdered sugar.

  In a large bowl, whip 1 1/2 cups heavy cream and fold in mascarpone mixture.

  Trim and soak 24 ladyfingers in the berry mixture in pie pan.

  Fit 12 ladyfingers side by side in two rows on
bottom of 8 X 8 baking dish.

  Spread 1/2 reserved berry mixture and 2 cups mascarpone mixture over ladyfingers, and then layer the remaining lady fingers with remaining strawberry mixture and mascarpone.

  Cover and refrigerate, cut into squares and garnish with shaved dark chocolate.

  Chapter 11

  BH 90210

  Annie

  Dear Diary,

  I am sweating like a pig, and freaking out like when I was six-years-old and I attended my first sleepover at Suzie Baloozie’s house, and she played us the movie Scream.

  I cannot believe Mack is in my freaking workplace. Mack thinks he is “in the house,” but trust me, if he screws up my first day in the front kitchen, I will slice him down like an old rotted tree in the yard outside of the house, and feed him to the wood chipper. What the hell is he thinking by coming here? And that scent? It was his cologne but it still reminds me of something else that I can’t put my finger on. He didn’t wear it when we were dating—I would have remembered. And, of course, Mack looks older and fatter than his picture on Facebook. We all do.

  “Oh, hey, Mack,” I said. “Shocker that you’re here—but so, um, nice, to see you after all these years. Feinberg’s Famous Deli is the best in L.A. Enjoy your meal. Where’s your table? I’ll send you over a toasted bagel with chive cream cheese—on the house. Super yummy. I’m at work. Let’s talk later, yes?”

  I smiled at him, turned back to packaging orders, lifting my jaw off the floor, and getting my job done. “Order for Chestnut Hill Productions ready!” I shouted to the staff behind me and tried to focus my attention on checking ten bags filled with an assortment of salads, sandwiches, and hot plates. I swiveled and Mack was still standing in the same spot, a goofy grin on his face. “What are you doing here?” I hissed.